Fighting to live.

I dig my fingers into Logan’s cloak and breathe. The air smells of musky tree bark, rich, dark earth, and the faint sweetness of the flowering sweetshrubs that dot the landscape.

“Please talk to me,” Logan says quietly, and something heavy lies in his voice. “Tell me what’s hurting you.”

I step back and my heart thuds against my chest.

“It has something to do with your nightmares, doesn’t it?” He reaches out and traces my cheek with his finger. “What do you dream about, Rachel?”

Blood. Pouring endlessly. Those I’ve lost. Those I’ve taken.

Guilt writhing through me like a poisonous snake, killing me slowly from the inside out.

He’s silent for a moment, and then he says quietly, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” I do. I just don’t trust myself. I can hold myself together during the day. I can take charge of what needs to be done; I can say the words everyone seems to want to hear; and I can pretend real feelings live inside of me instead of the vast wall of silence. But I can’t pretend at night. I can’t hold myself together when everything the silence keeps from me floods into my mind and brings me to my knees.

If I put words to it, if I let it cut me like I deserve, how will I ever keep the two parts of me separate again?

“If you trust me, then let me in. Please. I want to help you, but how can I when I don’t know what you’re facing?” Hurt crouches inside his words.

I swallow the automatic protest that rises to my lips. Once upon a time, I told Oliver everything. Told Dad almost everything. And I’d like to think if my mother had lived, I’d have shared almost everything with her, too. Maybe that’s what love is. Giving others the power to hurt you and trusting that they’ll use it to heal you instead.

Stepping forward, he cups my face in his calloused palms and says, “I know you aren’t okay. How could you be? I’m not okay, either. But hiding from it isn’t going to solve it.”

Something hot and painful throbs inside my chest. “Nothing’s going to solve it, Logan. I can’t . . .”

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t be strong enough to face this”—I gesture toward the bluff behind us and hope he knows that I mean everything. Oliver. Dad. The Commander. Everything—“if I start talking about my nightmares. And you need me to be strong. Everyone needs me to be strong. Falling apart isn’t an option.”

“Who says you’re going to fall apart?” He leans closer. “You’re the strongest person I know. Most would’ve quit trying by now, but not you. Trusting me with whatever is hurting you won’t break you, Rachel.”

He’s wrong. If I trust him with it, I have to also trust myself. I’d have to drag what lives in the shadows out into the light and hope I survive what I see.

And if I look my darkness in the face and it overwhelms me, how will I find the strength to get back on my feet again?

He rubs his thumb across my cheekbone. “It’s hard to face talking about things that hurt. But I think if we’re going to survive this together, we have to.”

“How come I’m the only one who has to talk about the hard stuff? You said you aren’t okay, either.”

“Fair enough. I’ll go first.” He lets go of me and pushes his hand through his hair. The silence between us lengthens until he laughs, a sharp, bitter sound. “You’re right. It’s a lot harder to talk about stuff like this than I gave you credit for.”

“Stuff like what?”

A shout goes up from the bluff, followed by more laughter. Behind us, the city is silent.

Logan tilts his head back and stares at the sky. “I think I might be to blame for the Rowansmark tracker killing our boys.” His voice sounds weary. Like this is a familiar thought he can hardly stand to face again.

“How could you possibly be to blame?”

“What if the message the killer left for us was meant for me? The first message was in my tech bag. What if the debt that needs to be paid is mine? What if I’m . . .” He swallows hard. “What if my choices are responsible for the deaths of those boys?”

I fist my hands on my hips. “Who put that stupid idea into your head?”

He shakes his head and doesn’t speak.

An owl hoots somewhere above us, and something scurries through the underbrush at our feet.

I step closer to Logan and put every ounce of conviction I possess into my voice. “You aren’t responsible.”

“I am if this really is a tracker delivering Rowansmark’s sentence of pain atonement. I kept the device—”

“I gave you the device in the first place. If you’re responsible, then so am I. So is Quinn, for keeping it safe for me instead of bringing it back to Rowansmark. In fact, while we’re busy writing fairy tales, my dad is responsible too, for bringing it out of Rowansmark in the first place.” I tap my foot against the ground while I wait for him to see reason. “Anyone who could slit the throats of innocent boys is a twisted, depraved lunatic. I don’t care what his sick justification was. If you take a life, you and you alone are responsible for that choice. If you can’t see that then you aren’t half as smart as I’ve always thought you were.”

He reaches out, takes my hand, and pulls me against him. His hands tangle in my hair, and he leans toward my mouth. “Do you know one of the things I love most about you?”